


The Fragile Pink of Dahlias and Fingertips

by whatthedruidscallme



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Merthur - Freeform, One Shot, Surprises, do i care? no, listened to the same four sea shanties while writing it too, nameday, purely self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29048520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthedruidscallme/pseuds/whatthedruidscallme
Summary: “It is bitterly cold out,” Merlin says, tucking his hands under his arms and bouncing on the spot. His nose is cherry red in the dim golden light pouring in through the windows, panels of evening sunlight shifting across his face. The glass trembles in the frozen wind lashing at the window.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 167





	The Fragile Pink of Dahlias and Fingertips

“It is bitterly cold out,” Merlin says, tucking his hands under his arms and bouncing on the spot. His nose is cherry red in the dim golden light pouring in through the windows, panels of evening sunlight shifting across his face. The glass trembles in the frozen wind lashing at the window.

“It’s not that cold,” Arthur says, tossing his tunic across the room. Merlin catches it and wraps his hands in it, shuddering. “Buck up, Merlin. How many winters have you passed in Camelot now? It must be warmer here than it is in Ealdor.” 

“Ealdor is further south,” Merlin says crossly. 

Arthur barks a short laugh. “Closer by perhaps a few leagues. At least you’re inside a castle and not under a thatched roof. Bound to be warmer.”

“It’s warm in  _ your _ room, not in mine,” Merlin says, glancing around. “I’ve spent my day throwing fuel on the fire so you wouldn’t throw something made of iron at my head when you came back.” 

“I’m glad you did,” Arthur says, sitting down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. He buries his face in his hands. “Patrol was an awful mess, and I was only thinking of sitting near that hearth with a cup of wine the entire time. I don’t understand why patrol has such a difficult time lately. I would leave Leon to do it if some disaster didn’t strike the second I left every time.”

“Well, it’s over now,” Merlin says equably. He turns back to Arthur once everything is folded and put away, clasping his hands behind his back, and for a brief moment he almost resembles the well-behaved servant he’s supposed to be. “Will that be everything?” 

“Er--no, actually,” Arthur says, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. He has to keep a straight face, or Merlin will guess something is wrong and Arthur will never get through with what he’s planning. “If you could go down to the armoury and retrieve my crossbow for tomorrow, I would be grateful. I want to get an early start on the day and I don’t want any delays.” 

Merlin rubs his eyes, and from the way his mouth contorts, he’s suppressing a yawn. “Can’t I just get it tomorrow morning?” he asks wearily. “I’m exhausted, Arthur, and I’m coming with you anyway.” 

“I’m afraid not,” Arthur says briskly. “Bring it up quickly and then it will be done, and then your duties will be finished for the evening. Thank you, Merlin.” 

Merlin stops himself from snapping at him with what looks like a great amount of effort, and without another word, turns on his heel and leaves the room. Arthur waits until Merlin’s footsteps fade around the corner before a grin breaks across his face, and he leaves his chambers almost at a run. He goes down spiralled stairs, takes a left, a right, another staircase and another left before he reaches the kitchen, breathing hard. 

The cook is still there, waiting with her arms crossed and her foot tapping. When Arthur slides into the kitchen, clutching at the wall for balance, a rare smile crosses her face. 

“Finally here, are you?” she says, but her voice is fond. She nods at a tray sitting beside her. “Go on, that’s yours. Make sure he eats some of it.” 

“I will,” Arthur promises breathlessly, and takes the tray. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” 

“Aye, you’re welcome,” she says. “Remember to sleep tonight.” She raises an eyebrow, and Arthur stops. Heat floods his cheeks, burning his face like he’s standing in front of a crackling fire. 

“You--I don’t know what you're talking about,” he says haltingly. 

The cook gives him a knowing look. “You do, sire. Be careful. Everyone down here is on his side, you know.” 

“Great,” Arthur mumbles. “Well, I’m going back up before he gets there first. Good night.” 

“Good night,” she says, and Arthur flees, his insides crawling with embarrassment.

When he at last reaches his own chambers, swearing increasingly filthy oaths under his breath, it is still empty. Arthur places the tray down and carefully sets out two plates, goblets that have been scrubbed to a pellucid shine, a jug of hot, spiced mead that is dangerously full, and various tastes of food that Arthur has noticed missing from his plate. 

He has scarcely sat down and caught his breath before the door opens again, and Arthur’s gaze snaps to Merlin standing on the threshold. 

“Er--what’s going on?” he says slowly, stepping into the room as though afraid the floor is going to give out under his feet. His gaze flickers to the melichrous candlelight that bathes the room, amicable like the glint of the sun on new cornfields. He still has the crossbow cradled awkwardly in his arms. 

“Put that down,” Arthur says, and his voice sounds strange and gentle to his own ears. Merlin stares at him, but sets it down by the door. It hits the floor with a heavy  _ thud _ . 

“What is this?” Merlin asks again. “How did you send down to the kitchen without me?” 

Arthur ignores him and jerks his head in the direction of the chair across from him. “Sit, Merlin.” 

“Are you going to sack me?” Merlin says suspiciously, settling his narrow gaze on Arthur’s face. His flush is the fragile pink of dahlias and fingertips. “Because I’ll have you know I’m the only one you can get away with treating me the way you do.” 

“No, you aren’t getting sacked,” Arthur says with an exasperated sigh. “Just sit down, would you?” 

Merlin does, albeit apprehensive, but his expression brightens minutely when he sees the spread set out. 

“Fruit?” he says wonderingly, poking at an apple gleaming raw and green, split into thin, shaved slices. “You don’t like uncooked fruit.” 

“No, but you do,” Arthur says, leaning back and crossing his arms. He nods at the tray. “I also seem to remember those particular sausages leaving my plate with no account on several occasions, and the purple grapes--though not the green ones, the gods know why--and the savoury shroves sitting there, a cut of salted pork you always got to before I did, and the turnips and butter you have some odd affection for.” 

Merlin glances up to Arthur, and his grin is so bright it’s nearly blinding. Arthur has to catch himself before he smiles foolishly back. 

“Why?” Merlin says, rolling a grape the deep violet of royalty between his nimble fingers. “I don’t understand.” 

“Do you remember the hunting trip I went on alone, nigh on a month ago? You were in a terrible mood for the rest of the sennight because I’d gone without you.” 

“Aye, I remember,” Merlin says, picking out a turnip still soaking in rich, golden butter. “What does that have to do with this?” 

“I wasn’t hunting,” Arthur says placidly, and Merlin’s brow creases. 

“Where were you?” 

“I--er--I went to see Hunith,” Arthur says, and Merlin chokes, wipes butter from his mouth. 

“My  _ mother _ ? By the blessed gods, why--” 

“Last year you said you didn’t know when your name-day was,” Arthur says, shifting uncomfortably. “I wanted to know, and Ealdor is only a day trip away. So I went and asked her.” 

Merlin stares at him, his jaw hanging open. His hair is more askew than usual, adding nicely to the countenance of shock, and Arthur bites back an unholy laugh. 

“So this is--this is for my...” 

“She said you were born in the dead of winter, the coldest of the days. Snow was plentiful, the cold more so, and that it was just after midwinter. That you were born just before dawn. So I...I picked a day.” 

“You picked a day,” Merlin repeats. His eyes are shining, so blue they are almost violet. “To celebrate my name-day?” 

“Aye,” Arthur says, and the more he thinks about it, the worse an idea it is. “I hope that’s okay. I wasn’t sure whether I was crossing a line or not.” 

“You’re not,” Merlin says, his blush deeper now, dark as the blooming red ochre noblewomen wear on their mouths. “I’m glad you did it.” 

“Good,” Arthur says with relief. 

“But you have to eat too.” 

“I didn’t bring all this up for you,” Arthur says, and Merlin laughs. 

A candlemark passes in slow, languid leisure, comfortable chatter, and an entire jug of mead. By the time it’s gone, Merlin has slid onto the floor, head tipped up to the ceiling, his lips parted and still glistening with drink. 

“Damn it all, you finished it,” Arthur says, tipping the empty jug into his still emptier cup. He glares at Merlin. “How dare you?” 

“You drank most of it,” Merlin says drowsily, raking his black hair back out of his eyes. “I wanted some too.” 

“Ungrateful servant,” Arthur mumbles.

“Oi, this was for me.” 

“How could I forget,” Arthur says, sliding onto the floor and near the hearth. He sighs as the heat flushes his face. “Ah, that’s better.” 

Merlin yawns. “This rug is better than my bed.” 

“That’s because my feet are more important than your head,” Arthur replies. “You know, a thought’s just crossed my mind--”

“Must’ve been a long and lonely journey,” Merlin mumbles, and Arthur can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him. 

“Shut up. As I was  _ saying _ , if you’d bother to listen instead of interrupting, I was thinking you could stay here tonight.” 

“What, really?” Merlin says, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin up on his hand. 

“To tell it true, I don’t think you could make it back to Gaius even if you wanted to,” Arthur says dryly. 

Merlin seems to consider this. “I suppose you’re right.” 

“Right then,” Arthur says, sitting up with a groan. “I’m getting ready to sleep.” 

Merlin pushes himself up, and his look is far too clear and calculating for Arthur’s comfort. 

“Why did you do all this for me?” he asks. A thrill of fear races through Arthur’s blood. 

“What do you mean?” he says as blandly as he can manage. “You’re my servant. It’s not just wages you earn from me, this job is a give and take, and in return for your hours, I take care of you. That’s how a relationship like this works.” 

“I don’t think that’s why,” Merlin says quietly. His eyes still haven’t left Arthur’s face, and Arthur fights the urge to lean back, away from a gaze far too sober and deliberate for his liking. “I think there’s another reason you went all the way to Ealdor to ask my mother when my name-day might be, and why you came back and planned all of this.” 

“I--I don’t know what you mean,” Arthur says unsteadily. Merlin is close, far too close now. Arthur can see the curling hair sticking damply to his temple, the lashes that brush the hollows beneath his eyes. 

“I think you like me,” Merlin whispers, and Arthur swallows. The  _ click  _ of his throat is absurdly loud in the room. The fire pops and crackles beside them, reverberating in Arthur’s ears. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” he says feebly, but he cannot even fool himself with it. 

“Is that why?” Merlin breathes. “When you offer me a night to stay here, do you mean on the pallet or in your bed, Arthur?” 

Arthur shudders at the sound of his name in Merlin’s mouth. “I--I don’t--”

“If I’m wrong, tell me now,” Merlin murmurs.

The silence stretches on between them, and just as Merlin is beginning to lean back, the words spill clumsily from Arthur’s mouth. 

“You’re not,” he manages. “You’re not wrong. I--it’s true. I can’t help it. I wanted...but you don’t have to. You don’t have to. The last thing I would want to do is take advantage.” 

“Then I’ll take advantage,” Merlin whispers, and when he tilts forward, violent anticipation flushes through Arthur’s bones, so vivid, so savage, that he wonders for a moment if he can stand it. 

Before another thought can run through his brain, Merlin is kissing him, soft and curious, pliant and sticky with the mead they’ve just drunk. His hand rises to graze Arthur’s face, and the trance Arthur has been in shatters. He leans into it, kissing Merlin harder, the faintest moan escaping his throat only to be swallowed by Merlin’s mouth. Arthur’s hand cups the back of his head, fingers threading through the thick, tangled hair at the nape of his neck, and Merlin turns to liquid in his arms. 

It isn’t long before Merlin’s back is pressed to the rug beneath them, Arthur propping himself above Merlin’s body, sliding one arm under the small of Merlin’s back to pull them flush together. Their lips slide raggedly together, hearts thudding in a delicate, uneven tandem, breath rising like a harmony between them. 

When Arthur breaks away, he leans his forehead against Merlin’s, gasping lungfuls of air. His body is trembling. Dangerous words are on the tip of his tongue, he can feel it.

“Merlin, I--I--"

“What?” Merlin says hazily, looking up at him with large, dark eyes clouded with pleasure, limp fingers sliding through Arthur’s hair. “What is it?” 

Arthur opens his mouth and then shuts it again. He shakes his head minutely. “I--never mind. I won’t say it tonight.” 

Merlin’s answering smile is soft. “You won’t?” 

“No,” Arthur murmurs. “Not tonight, I don’t think. But soon.”

“Okay,” Merlin whispers, and Arthur leans down to kiss him again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i turned 22 today but my province is still in an emergency lockdown, so since i cannot celebrate, i will write them celebrating! luv me some self indulgent fic :) you can find me on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/whatthedruidscallme)


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